The pure wind makes me chant poems.
The bright moon urges me to drink.
Intoxicated, I fall among the flowers,
heaven my blanket, earth my pillow.

translated by Jonathan Chaves

We sail past a pine-tree forest on the river bank.
A man is walking where the trees end.
A mountain moves in front of the man, blocking our view.
The blue flag of a wine shop flutters in the wind.

translated by Jonathan Chaves

A year ago my boat, homeward bound,
moored at Yen-ling—
I was kept awake all night by the rain
beating against the sails.
Last night the rain fell on the thatched roof
of my house.
I dreamed of the sound of rain
beating against the sails.

translated by Jonathan Chaves

Stone cliffs and clumps of bamboo,
river pavilions and small towers—
the sound of the rapids clarifies the traveler’s dreams;
in the shadow of the lamp the poet’s sadness grows.

The first day of spring has vanished,
and soon the full-moon festival will pass.

What is making me unhappy,
making me knit my brow like this?

translated by Jonathan Chaves

Painted barrages like mountains floating on the water;
small boats like ducks avoiding the shore;
red banners, green canopies, the clang of gongs—
people everywhere, saying hello or saying goodbye.

translated by Jonathan Chaves

Here turtles and fish turn back,
and even the crabs are worried.
But for some reason poets risk their lives
to run these rapids and swirl past these rocks.

translated by Jonathan Craves

The poet must work with brush and paper,
but this is not what makes the poem.
A man doesn’t go in search of a poem—
the poem comes in search of him.

translated by Jonathan Chaves

T’ao Ch’ien forgot words
when he experienced reality.
Today his experience is still alive in your pavilion.
If a guest should ask you “What is this ‘reality’?”
say: “A person’s image is a mirror,
the sky reflected in water.”

translated by Jonathan Chaves

Away and away I sail in my light boat;
My heart leaps with a great gust of joy.
Throuh the leafless branches I see the temple in the wood;
Over the dwindling stream the stone bridge towers.
Down the grassy lanes sheep and oxen pass;
In the misty village cranes and magpies cry.

Back in my home I drink a cup of wine
And need not fear the greed of the evening wind.

translated by Arthur Waley

Of Spring water,—thirty or forty miles:
In the evening sunlight,—three or four houses.
Youths and boys minding geese and ducks:
Women and girls tending mulberries and hemp.
The place,—remote: their coats and scarves old:
The year,—fruitful: their talk and laughter gay.
The old wanderer moors his flat boat
And staggers up the bank to pluck wisteria flowers.

translated by Arthur Waley